


Beautiful Boy

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years following Sherlock's death, a fatherly Lestrade copes with the fairytale Moriarty left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Characters don't belong to me. Heaps of thanks to Small_Hobbit for the last minute brit-pick.

Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot.

 

Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he’d slain.

 

And soon they began to wonder. ‘Are Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories even true?’ Oh, no. So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said, ‘I don’t _believe_ Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories. He’s just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.’

 

And then even the King began to wonder.

 

But that wasn’t the end of Sir Boast-a-lot’s problem. No. That wasn’t the _final_ problem.

 

The End.

 

*   *   *

 

He knew the twisted fairytale by heart now.  And in the weeks after the abandoned cab had been found - the video of Moriarty excised and transferred to a disc for viewing at New Scotland Yard – Greg could hear the bastard’s voice in his head everywhere that he went, every waking hour and most likely, in every subsequent nightmare his merciful mind made him forget by the time he’d woken up.

 

And then, after a few months – after Sally had confiscated his copy of the recording – Greg experienced a tiny respite of professional apathy, marked by a string of unrelated deaths, half of which turned out to be accidental. He had a feeling higher-ups were giving him the more watered-down (“Boring!”) cases on purpose, the ones with the most (“Obvious!”) leads, under the assumption that he was compromised. And if he could’ve hidden how true that assessment was, he would’ve protested. In the end, it was probably a blessing. And he had a feeling Liam Dimmock needed the time he put in as his ‘unofficial’ replacement.

 

Before he realized it, a year had passed. Sherlock’s suicide was no longer a persistent memory. Greg’s mind had figured out a way to compartmentalize the bad from the good and he’d even found a way to laugh again. Liam had thrown his way a few of the more grisly cases – the ones D.I. Dimmock would never admit confused him – and it was a boost to Greg’s unending loneliness to find a way to hear Sherlock’s voice (his beautiful boy) take him through a crime scene again, even if it was all in his head. He kept this aspect of the work private. So of course, when people praised Greg for solving a particularly puzzling case, it left him nonplussed. How could they give him credit for anything when everything he learned that mattered was because of Sherlock?

 

It had taken what felt like a lifetime, but Greg was coming back to his old self.  Not better; just…manageable. So of course, how long could it last?

 

An unmarked yellow envelope left on his doorstep. A red wax seal.

 

It had been so long, and Greg wasn’t fully awake that morning, or he wouldn’t have opened it. It wasn’t a bomb or anthrax – Moriarty would never be so prosaic.  It was another disc; no note, nothing else.

 

That’s when he realized who had sent it to him. And it was the anger that spurred him on, what made him walk over to the DVD player, slide it in and watch what was on it.

 

It was like the year hadn’t passed; as though he’d made no progress, any attempts at self-healing.

 

Sherlock (my beautiful boy) filled the screen. The surroundings were darkly lit and the video was poor in quality but Greg knew at once where the young man was sitting and when.

 

That night of the story.  In Moriarty’s cab.

 

Sherlock was demanding that the driver switch off the portable television and Greg’s heart plummeted from his throat to his feet, for he knew the script so well by now.

 

As he watched Sherlock’s reaction to every word, angry tears sprung forth, clouding Greg’s vision. He gritted his teeth – held fast to how red-rimmed (my beautiful boy) Sherlock’s lower lids were getting, the frustration, the rage –

 

But what he wasn’t prepared to see, the one expression that could very well stop his heart from beating –

 

Was Sherlock’s distress borne from…belief.

 

 _No._ _Don’t believe him, my beautiful boy. Please don’t you believe him._

 

Greg wiped viciously at the tears rolling down his cheeks - his lower lip a hard, rigid, quivering line of red, his jaw set and ready to break from the tension.

 

So far, Greg had been very, very wrong. It _could_ get worse. It wasn’t enough to know that Moriarty had used the fact that they had been to see _Camelot_ together and that the King Arthur legend had been a fascination they’d shared. But the bastard had waited until this moment – a moment when the wounds had healed enough so that he could walk upright again, content that his memories of Sherlock were untainted, and that there had never been enough time, but that the time gifted them both had been pure.

 

Like a penance, he watched it to the end. And every second felt as though a part of his body was being ripped away.

 

Sherlock looked so sure. So definitive in his belief that the man who had adopted him in all but legal matters had given up on him.  Greg thought back to the last time he’d seen Sherlock (my beautiful boy) and that was when he’d fled with John, the two handcuffed to one another.

 

Greg hurled the remote at the screen as it fuzzed out. He let out a strangled moan that ended in full body wracking sobs and bent his head down so low that he practically curled in on himself.  For the first time in a year, he let it out.  It was animal.  It was like dying.  It was like wanting to die and not caring if anyone cared for him anymore.

 

Sherlock had thought ‘Dad’ had abandoned him. And it was the last thing Greg ever expected to see on his beautiful boy’s face. And on the last day Greg would ever see him, too.  How cruel it was to know this. It was a piece of knowledge that only Moriarty could deliver in such an “elegant” way.

 

Prosaic, it was not.

 

*   *   *

 

Greg stopped coming in to work.

 

He wouldn’t leave his flat.

 

Greg let the battery on his mobile run out and wouldn’t recharge it.

 

His self-imposed exile didn’t last very long. Because he had a history of doing this.

 

So after a week, Sally came by.

 

*   *   *

 

“Something arrived at your office yesterday,” she forced her way past him and put down her handbag, a yellow envelope peeking out from it, hauled off her coat and stalked into the kitchen, putting on the washing-up gloves, running the hot water and pouring washing-up liquid into the sink.

 

She only stopped long enough to give her boss a once-over. It didn’t take more that two seconds to see how dire the situation was – same ratty dressing gown, vest and trousers worn for the past five days, a week’s worth of stubbly patches on his face, hair matted and unruly. She’d smelt his breath when she’d entered. Greg reeked of soured whiskey.

 

The glass recyclables had piled up – all of the same favorite, expensive brand. The bins were half full of takeaway containers, most of them uneaten. The stench of rotting meat and garlic added to Greg’s own personal lack of hygiene and alcohol stew, raising a cloud of despair that rivaled anything else she’d seen from him before.

 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” she trod lightly, her voice too bright.

 

“ _You_ open it.” Greg yanked open another cabinet door and pulled out a whiskey bottle three-quarters of the way full.

 

Sally promptly took it from him, “I’m busy being your housekeeper. You need to open it, boss. It might be important. A lead.”

 

Greg rubbed the haze from his face and pulled out the envelope from her handbag to examine it, “No return address.”

 

Sally turned off the water and began washing the various cups and plates –

 

“No!”

 

She stood still, her back to him.  And then she saw the package sail into her vision and hit the wall in front of her, plonk, into the sink. Quick as anything, she snatched it up to rescue the contents from being ruined for good. Sally peeled off the gloves and pulled out a disc from the soggy envelope. But what finally alarmed her is what she saw when she looked up.

 

Greg was curled up on the couch, his face to the cushions, trembling. What came out was a valiant attempt at monotone, “No. No more. It’s Moriarty again. We’ve all suffered enough. Just destroy it.”

 

She stared only for a moment, said nothing in response, walked over to her handbag, pulled out a laptop and took it to the kitchen counter to open up. She slid the disc in, waited for the pertinent program to fire up and read the file before pressing ‘play.’

 

It was fuzzy and shaky at first, but then an unseen hand placed whatever device was recording this video on a stand and the quaking abruptly stopped.  The person belonging to that hand backed up and Sally squinted; the ginger-haired male looked familiar, although she was certain they’d never met.

 

There seemed to be no sound, but then Sally rolled her eyes and remembered she’d put her lappie on mute for the day –

 

“Please, Merlyn! Change me into a hawk or I will have your head –“ A pale boy of no more than six came into view, his head an unruly mass of dark curls. He made a cluck of his tongue, “ – cut off!”

 

Both children – for it was clear now to Sally that the ginger-haired one was only in his teens – were dressed as though to re-enact something, most likely a play.  The older boy was clad in a sweeping navy robe riddled with pasted on stars of yellow felt and the younger wore a scarf around his neck and a billowing white shirt tucked into short trousers.

 

Whatever it was the boys were doing, it didn’t last very long. The littler one’s face would get red and he’d stamp his right foot. Then they’d both break character and begin to argue. Sally smiled, despite being in full, deadly serious detective mode, and turned up the volume.

 

“ – Mycroft, put the beard on or I won’t continue!”

 

It was _him_ and the way she knew it was him was the way Greg turned his head sharply, his eyes wide. Sure, her boss (and she, by association) had only met Sherlock when he was fully grown, but the inflection in his voice had obviously been established pre-adolescence, the posh accent, everything. All that was different was his pitch.

 

This was a young Sherlock. A _very_ young one. Sally couldn’t believe what she was seeing. And her heart was beating a mile a minute.

 

Greg had nearly stumbled over the living room table to get to her side, his mouth agape.  They watched in silence together as the bickering continued. Neither sibling was giving in (and God knows what it was about) but it had a marked effect on Greg. Young Sherlock was quibbling about an inaccuracy of the play that was lost on Sally, but her boss startled her with the deep-throated laughter that burst forth.

 

“Good God, we had that same argument – “ the tears had returned, but they were clearly joyous, buoyant on his cheeks with it, “ – that same stupid argument the night we went to see it. Who sent this? Who could’ve possibly –“

 

They looked at one another, realization dawning on them at the same time.

 

“Mycroft Holmes.”

 

*   *   *

 

After storming in past the secretary, Greg threw the package on the desk without preamble.

 

“Good morning, Inspector.  To what do I owe this honor?”

 

They’d never met, but from what little Sherlock had revealed of his blood family ties, Greg correctly deduced that much of his complaints had been misplaced. Through action, Mycroft had shown that he’d cared about his younger brother a great deal, even if it had gone unappreciated for the duration of Sherlock’s short life.

 

“Why did you send me this?”

 

Greg had had enough time to watch the short, five-minute video over and over again so that he could ask questions of Mycroft without breaking down. In truth, he did it repeatedly as though to mentally wipe out the damage Moriarty had done with his two.  But in the end, all that came back to him was the fact that such a trifle – a silly, inconsequential excerpt in the life of the Holmes boys, but a treasured piece of something Greg never had, could never have had and now, couldn’t even laugh about with the older version of that ‘Arthur’ (my beautiful boy) - had been sent at all.

 

“I never sent you anything, Inspector. Anything at all.”

 

Greg had never wanted to chin someone as much as he did now. After everything he’d gone through, the supercilious grin – and the lie it came with – was too difficult to bear.

 

But before he could fire a retort, the corner of Mycroft’s lips turned downward and the sparkle in his eyes faded, stopping Greg short. The elder Holmes reached into the envelope and pulled out the disc to read the label.

 

“December 24th, 1982.” It was a wistful smile that greeted Greg this time. “I wanted to do _The Pirates of Penzance_ but he insisted on something else – “

 

“ _Camelot_.”

 

“Ah, yes.” He placed the disc down, regarding it with a gentle countenance, caressing its edge with his thumb, “Before you accuse me of falsehoods, I would ask whether or not you’ve been thorough in your deductions. All of your answers came with this package, Inspector Lestrade.”

 

Greg regarded him defensively, but it was uncanny how much Mycroft and Sherlock resembled one another in modus operandi. So he obeyed as though from muscle memory and looked down to examine the envelope.

 

It hit him immediately (“Stupid. Stupid!”).

 

“The stamps. This came from South Africa five days ago.”

 

Mycroft’s eyebrow went up and he buzzed his secretary, “Anthea, can you tell me my itinerary from October the twelfth?”

 

_Yes, sir. You were having lunch at the Ugandan Embassy at noon, followed by afternoon tea with –_

“Did I leave the country? Was I out of the country, my dear?”

 

_No, sir._

Mycroft switched off the intercom and went back to regarding Greg with patience and kindness.

 

“Deduce, Inspector. Who else do you think could’ve sent you such a package, if not I?”

 

Greg had already thought of it, but his heart could take very little more.

 

“It can’t be.”

 

Mycroft smiled then. One of such brilliance, it was hard to deny what lay behind it.

 

“There is what we are told to believe, and then there is the _truth_. And that is all that I am at liberty to say.”

 

“Sherlock was right about one thing.”

 

“And that was -?”

 

“You are a right cryptic bastard.”

 

Mycroft laughed then, fully and happily. But the moment passed just as soon as it came, replaced by an expression that showed more than a touch of misanthropy.

 

“Father was cultured; both of us inherited his tastes, his ability to manipulate. It has served me well. But Siger Holmes’ parenting had quite the opposite effect on my brother. Spending time under your…influence…has made him imperfect, lacking in objectivity, unnecessarily vulnerable…rather… _compromised_ …I believe.”

 

The fact that Mycroft had spoken of Sherlock in the present tense was all that Greg had needed.  It didn’t matter that he’d missed the one time a year Mycroft Holmes gave out a compliment.

 

*   *   *

 

He was called to the car park by a text message from Liam – something about checking out a contact, someone who would testify in the Markham case, but someone who wasn’t willing to do so unless he felt fully protected. Greg was asked to come on his own to the rendezvous point, the details of a witness program to be sent to his email by the time the contact arrived.

 

But now that he’d checked his pockets for his mobile, he found nothing. Not even his wallet. And he was certain that he’d left the office with both of them. The contact didn’t want to meet with someone who could travel by car, so Greg had taken the tube. And now he was stranded with no money and no mobile to call for back up.

 

Stupid. _Stupid._

 

He cursed the denizens of the tube, the damn pickpockets.

 

“Lose something, Lestrade?”

 

The voice came from a bright light in the opposite direction. Greg turned and squinted at a tall, impossibly familiar silhouette, holding both his mobile and his wallet in either hand, arms wide.  And as it began to walk towards him, the bottom lids of Greg’s warm eyes filled, quickly spilling with recognition, the shine of his pupils returning as the corners of his mouth turned quiveringly upwards.

 

As he spoke, it was as though he hadn’t uttered these three words in a thousand years.

 

“My beautiful boy.”           

 


End file.
